Rivers of rain pour down,
soaking my jeans, socks, shoes,
and everything else that my
just-on-the-verge-of-breaking
umbrella cannot save.
I look at joy, lying on the curbside,
accepting its fate
in the cold, damp street,
as it does a sickly breaststroke,
aimlessly circling a dirty puddle,
while anger kicks at it trying to
disassemble what’s left of it.
My tears are caught in a dirty tin cup,
which distributes them around the
dysfunctional pond of feelings
that are falling apart.
Still the winds rage, the rain pelts,
and my brain fog ends up doing a
backstroke, next to joy, holding
onto my ears as paddles.
When will it stop raining?
(Will it ever stop raining?)